


Vererbtes Trauma - Inherited Trauma

by Quecksilver_Eyes



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amor Vincit Omnia, F/M, Implied pedophilia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Suicide Attempt, and say 'i'm not worth it', bc this is wolfgang, because Anton Bogdanow is a piece of shit, canonical though, i have a lot of feelings about wolfgang, in which irina looks at her child and wolfgang looks at his mother, on generations and the differences a 'no' can make, referenced past murder, trigger warnings for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 02:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16461686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes
Summary: „It’s not worth it, Wolfgang. I’m not worth it“, says Irina Bogdanow.His mother is lying on the bed, curled into herself and shivering, and Wolfgang raises his chin and fiddles with his hands. His mother is beautiful, a smile like the sun, her touch soft and grounding and his father put his hands on her until she screamed. Until her face was a scowl as much as his was, red and tear stained and warped until he couldn’t see his mother underneath it all.





	Vererbtes Trauma - Inherited Trauma

**Author's Note:**

> there's a translation of the german part at the bottom for those of you who don't speak German.

“Es ist es nicht wert, Wolfgang. Ich bin es nicht  
wert.” 

Irina Bogdanow ist ein Bündel Reisig auf dem Bett  
ihres Sohnes, ihre Augen verschwollen, ihre   
Stimme ein zitterndes Nichts. Sie ist dünn, und   
blass, als sei all ihr Blut in die Wangen ihres   
Stiefvaters gewichen. „Ich bin es nicht wert“, sagt   
sie, sagen Jahre der blauen Flecken, der   
aufgeplatzten Lippen, der zerdrückten Kehlen, der   
Pistolen kalt gegen ihre Schläfe gepresst. 

„Ich werde es hinrichten“, sagt Wolfgang in seiner   
Bubenstimme, die noch nicht gebrochen ist und   
Irina wünschte, sie könnte weinen und ihr Kind in   
die Decke hüllen, auf der sie kauert. „Du bist ein   
Kind“, will sie sagen. „Du bist bloß ein kleiner Junge   
und ich wünschte, du hättest einen Vater, der das   
sehen kann.“

Ich wünschte, du hättest eine Mutter, die in den   
Spiegel sehen und sich mögen kann.

Stattdessen legt sie eine Hand auf Wolfgangs   
Wange, ein müdes Lächeln auf den Lippen, das   
verkrustete Blut braun auf ihrer Haut. Wolfgang   
sieht sie an aus Augen, die längst nicht mehr die   
eines Kindes sind.

Irina kennt diesen Blick, hat ihn im Spiegel   
gesehen, nachdem Anton zum ersten Mal in ihr   
Zimmer kam, sein Atem schwer mit Bier und Hass.   
Und nun sieht ihr Junge sie an, aus denselben   
Augen, das Kiefer hervorgeschoben, die Fäuste   
geballt. 

Wolfgang sollte niemals wissen, wie man seine   
Stimme verdreht, wie man die Fäuste ballt oder   
eine Waffe auf Unschuldige richtet. Wolfgang   
sollte niemals seinen Vater ansehen und etwas   
anderes sehen als einen betrunken, wütenden   
Mann, der nur Gewalt spricht. Wolfgang sollte   
seine Stimme behalten, sanft und klar und so gar   
nicht wie Anton und seine Fratze.

Wolfgang hätte Kind bleiben sollen, in all diesem   
Chaos, all diesem Blut auf ihrer beider Hände.   
Wolfgang hätte –

Irina Bogdanow sieht ihren Sohn an und erkennt   
sich selbst in ihm, die Ohnmacht und die Wut.

„Ich bin es nicht wert“, sagt sie und weiß, dass ihr   
Kind sie nicht hört.

 

* * *

 

 

„It’s not worth it, Wolfgang. I’m not worth it“, says   
Irina Bogdanow.

His mother is lying on the bed, curled into herself   
and shivering, and Wolfgang raises his chin and   
fiddles with his hands. His mother is beautiful, a   
smile like the sun, her touch soft and grounding  
and his father put his hands on her until she  
screamed. Until her face was a scowl as much as   
his was, red and tear stained and warped until he  
couldn’t see his mother underneath it all.

“I’m going to fix it”, he says and his voice is high in  
his throat, echoes deep in his ears. It hasn’t yet  
broken, is still the singing voice that warps itself   
around his mother’s favourite tunes. “I’m going to   
fix it”, he says and means his mother, means Felix   
and Kala and Rajan and all the people who suffer   
when he does. “None of you deserve this.”

None of you deserve me and the sticky black tar of   
a mess stretching over my knuckles.

But Kala screams and pleads and he can feel her   
horror, can feel her fear, and the tears in her eyes.   
She looks at him with dark eyes, her hands on his  
cheeks, a shadow of his mother’s, but Kala isn’t   
bruised and Kala is alive.

And then she runs for the balcony, runs from him  
to do what he is threatening and he lowers his gun,   
wraps his arms around her. He knows the look in   
her eyes, the way her jaw sets, how her hands have   
stopped shaking, the way her thoughts come   
to a sudden halt.

His chest aches and there is blood all over him,   
his finger over the trigger, but his mind is with Kala,   
Kala and her rage. She was supposed to pick Rajan  
and stop thinking about him and the blood  
dripping from him. She was supposed to look at   
the way he murdered his uncle – his eyes like steel,   
bullet after bullet in Sergei’s neck – and see what   
he is.

Kala was supposed to turn her back, the cluster   
was supposed to turn their backs, none of them  
were supposed to look at him and – 

Irina Bogdanow had looked at him when he was a   
child, with tired eyes and blood crusted lips.

“I’m not worth it”, she’d said, and Wolfgang did   
too, and his cluster stood between them and said   
**“No.”**

**Author's Note:**

> translation of the german part:   
> (”It’s not worth it, Wolfgang. I’m not worth it.”
> 
> Irina Bogdanow is a bundle of brushwood on her son’s bed, her eyes swollen, her voice a shiver of nothing. She’s thin and pale, as if all her blood had risen into her stepfather’s cheeks. “I’m not worth it”, says Irina, say years of bruises, of lips cut open, throats pressed shut, cold guns pressed against her temple.
> 
> “I’m going to fix it”, Wolfgang says in his boy’s voice that hasn’t yet broken and Irina wishes she could cry and wrap her child into the blanket she is lying on. “You’re a child”, she wants to say, “you’re just a little boy and I wish you had a father who could see that.”
> 
> I wish you had a mother who could look into the mirror and like herself.
> 
> Instead, she puts a hand on Wolfgang’s cheek, a tired smile on her lips, the dried blood brown on her skin. Wolfgang looks at her with eyes that aren’t those of a child any longer.
> 
> Irina knows that look, has seen it stare at her from the mirror after Anton had come into her room the first time, his breath heavy from beer and hatred. And now her boy looks at her like that, his jaw set, his fists balled.
> 
> Wolfgang was never supposed to know how to twist his voice, how to ball his fists and point guns at the innocent. Wolfgang wasn’t ever supposed to look at his father and see anything but a drunk, angry man who only speaks in violence. Wolfgang was supposed to keep his voice, soft and clear and not at all like Anton and his scowl.
> 
> Wolfgang was supposed to stay a child, still, in all this chaos and blood on both their hands. Wolfgang was supposed to –
> 
> Irina Bogdanow looks at her son and sees herself in him, the powerlessness and the anger.
> 
> “I’m not worth it”, she says and knows that her child does not hear her.)


End file.
